


Wait and Hope: Part 2

by woodworms_before_breakfast



Series: Wait and Hope [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Arthur, POV Gwen (Merlin), POV Merlin (Merlin), POV Morgana (Merlin), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:14:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodworms_before_breakfast/pseuds/woodworms_before_breakfast
Summary: "All human wisdom is summed up in two words: wait and hope" - Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte CristoThe middle, in which Morgana discovers the meaning of names
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Wait and Hope [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886035
Kudos: 18





	1. Mes chagrins, mes plaisirs - je n’ai plus besoin d’eux

The hall was largely empty. The swish of her gown whispered upon the floor and ricocheted off the walls. She approached the Table, knowing they wished that the clicks of her heels were the raps of his boots, that the bloodshot green eyes were replaced by wide blue ones, that the ebony locks reflecting what little sunlight shone through the windows were short and ruffled rather than long and silky.

The hall was vast and largely empty. Her jaw set.

“Welcome, Morgana.”

She answered her brother’s greeting with a curt nod. Cordial words from smiling lips meant nothing to her now that she no longer sought the gold atop his head.

“Am I, brother?” She scoured the Table pointedly, acknowledging each glowering knight with an ironic tilt of her head. “If I truly were, wouldn’t you think I’d have joined you far earlier than this?”

“You would, wouldn’t you,” Gwaine muttered, twirling a dagger between his fingers, “but you didn’t. You didn’t join us.” The perpetual smirk on his face had grown sardonic, his humour darker and his hate more bitter ever since-

“Gwaine.” The King had changed as well, since that day. He’d learned how to snap, how to turn the corners of his lips into an arch of disapproval so that all who beheld him trembled in shame, no matter their guilt or innocence. “Morgana, we’ve agreed to put the past behind us. Please, sit.”

He tilted his head towards a silver- and emerald-crested throne to the right of Guinevere, who smiled assuringly. Morgana considered Gwen’s words from the night before and appraised the seat a moment longer. (Funny, how long had she craved a throne such as this?) She stared coldly at Arthur, uncertainty flickering across the ice in her eyes.

“Sit,” he repeated. She sat.

The hall was grand and the discussion heated. And the walls appeared to close in around her as she remained in her seat, twisting the ring on her finger and waiting for the muffled conversation around her to cease.

***

Arthur had not slept for three months. He closed his eyes for hours every night, willing himself to forget how to see and how to feel, but memories and pain threw themselves before his eyes all the same.

Helplessness had never been a cloak in which he felt comfortable; after all, he’d been raised by a man who placed a righteous image before a noble heart. The situation in which he found himself now was the embodiment of everything Uther would have rebuffed: leaving evidence of emotion upon his face, pacing meaninglessly for days on end in his chambers, spending every waking hour — which was _every_ hour for him — worrying about someone whom Uther would see only as a “servant.” Someone without whom Arthur may as well plunge back into the yellow waters of Avalon.

He had only felt so frustrated and lost twice before in his life. Once, in an eerily similar situation, when he’d lost Merlin to whom he now understood to be Morgana.

The second time had been equally agonising, if in a different way. Finding Guinevere and Lancelot together in the throne room had unleashed zephyrs of pain and turmoil and doubt within him, causing perhaps unfair reactions on his part now that he knew the magical foundations of the incident. The reason for his frustration then had grown clearer with time, having little to do with Guinevere herself and much more with his heart, but he had put off facing it until now.

Running his hands through his hair as he stood there by the window, studying the moon and the stars as they loomed so unjust in their brightness, he swore that when they found Merlin — for they _would_ find him — he would face the truth and force Merlin to face it with him.

***

_Em- Emr-_

_MERLIN!_

She woke with a scream that had not pierced the night in centuries. Moments later, the corridor outside echoed with hurried footsteps, and the door creaked open to welcome a worried smile that quelled the quaking storms within her lungs.

“Morgana, it’s alright,” Gwen murmured as she neared the bed, palm already outstretched in preparation of sniffling vulnerability and long-awaited intimacy.

It wasn’t right. She was wearing purple silks and glittering rubies now, not yellow patches and rosy daisies. She was a _queen_ , for she had been Queen, and Morgana had not. What business had a Queen in a traitor’s chambers? In a traitor’s arms?

And yet Morgana couldn’t help herself. “I had a dream,” she whispered. “It was terrifying.”

“A dream?” She could only hope the tremour in Gwen’s voice was concern and not fear. “But you haven’t had one in-"

“It was about Merlin,” she said, gladly encasing herself in Gwen’s arms and nestling her nose in the scent of friendship and trust. “Just like the ones I used to have of Arthur, but this time… I _know_ they’re real. Not like I knew in Camelot, because I wasn’t truly certain then — I’m certain now, Gwen. I saw him.”

Gwen squeezed her waist, encouraging her to continue. Not for Merlin’s sake, but for her own. These dreams needed to be spoken, not contained as they’d been before, for confinement would only fuel shadowed growth that erupted in madness and massacres.

“I know where he is.”

And the illusion shattered. Gwen’s grip had become firm and demanding, the grip of a Queen and not a servant, a commander and not a friend. _Where?_ her hands screamed. _Where is Merlin, witch?_ Morgana wrestled herself out of the embrace and ignored the flash of hurt that streaked across Gwen’s eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you find him,” she said, slipping enough coldness into her voice so that only someone who knew her well enough would hear it.

From the sad sigh that escaped Gwen’s lips, she heard it.

“You are part of us now, Morgana,” Gwen said, her gaze soft and achingly familiar. “Some of the others are still... hesitant, so we haven’t given you a throne yet — but you understand, don’t you? _Please_ , Morgana. I’m sure Arthur will have a seat for you at the Table tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Morgana scoffed, “because all I’ve ever wanted is to join you at that damned Table.”

Gwen smiled ruefully. “Isn’t it, though? A family who knows and accepts who you are?”

Well. It was almost ridiculous how Gwen could render a High Priestess speechless armed with only a gentle smile and a honeyed question. Morgana almost laughed out loud. She clasped her friend’s hand and dipped her head.

“If nothing else,” she hummed, happy with the blush dusting Gwen’s cheeks, “I’ll be glad to see you there. You can be sure someone will lose a leg if my throne isn’t next to yours.”

Gwen giggled. The sound warmed Morgana’s shivering heart. She kissed her forehead and strolled out of the room, leaving Morgana to wonder how much this light, familiar aura would darken once she shared her dream at the Table the next day.

For it had been beyond terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 has *arrived*
> 
> Title from: “Non je ne regrette rien” (Edith Piaf)


	2. Mon s'est perdu sur les bords d'un jardin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ebony hair cascaded off her shoulder as she laid there unconscious, much as Gwen had, except she looked less asleep and more... dead.

As the last traces of the grinning skull and its faithful serpent disappeared from the sky, Merlin returned his tumultuous gaze to Arthur and Gwen, who watched him in horror and confusion. The familiar signs of unease upon his face — the furrow between his brows, the press in his lips, the flare of his nostrils — were disquieting to Arthur in of themselves, but it was the fleck of gold in each stormy blue eye, a fleck that Arthur had only recently come to appreciate as a sign of Merlin’s greatest distraught, that worried him the most.

“Merlin?” Gwen’s voice trembled and nearly broke on the last syllable.

The warlock closed his eyes. “Yes, Gwen. It’s Morgana.”

“How do you know?” Arthur blurted. He was immediately greeted with indignant brown eyes: _Magic, of course_.

But Merlin shook his head and Gwen faltered. “The skull,” he said, barely audible over the drone of a busy, beguilingly normal London morning. “It represents hemlock, which is…” He inhaled as if to prepare himself for a perilous leap.

“Which is what I used to poison her when Morgause attacked Camelot.”

Gwen stumbled backwards, palm pressed upon her chest as her eyes widened.

The words circled Arthur’s head, trying to unsteady him as they had Gwen. But the wet shine of Merlin’s eyes and tremulous, inexplicable thoughts of _I forgive you, I forgive you_ bound Arthur’s feet and rooted him in place.

“Why,” he croaked.

“It was the only-" Merlin paused and winced. “Kilgharrah told me it was the only way to lift the spell and defeat the Knights of Medhir.”

Arthur stared at him incredulously. “The _only_ way? Murder?”

“I suppose,” Merlin sighed, “Kilgharrah did not always tell me the truth. At least, not the whole truth.”

“Surprise, surprise.” Arthur pinched the space between his eyebrows. “Merlin, why would poisoning Morgana save Camelot from the Stone Knights? Weren’t they sent by Morgause?” He paused. “Come to think of it, why was Morgause so keen to help Morgana take the throne?”

There was a faint sigh from his left. “Because,” Gwen whispered, “Morgause is her sister. I’m sorry, I’d forgotten you didn’t know.”

Arthur’s mouth went dry. “You mean- Uther-"

“No, Arthur,” Merlin said quickly, “the other side. Vivienne, not Uther. You and Morgause share no blood.”

“Alright.” Arthur nodded slowly, swallowing as he felt air flush back into his chest. “But does that mean-" A sudden surge of shock and anger seized his throat again, robbing him of what little breath he’d regained. “She- Morgana, she was already... _turned_ , then? Even as she went on posing as my sister, she’d already slipped away?”

Merlin and Gwen were silent, neither of them meeting his gaze. Uncertainty flickered in Merlin’s blue eyes, as though he were recounting an unpleasant memory and had realised something he hadn’t before. Arthur brushed aside any questions, promising himself to ask Merlin about it later; at the moment, the wound that Morgana’s betrayal had carved into him, which had never quite healed, felt freshly torn once more. It reminded him of a conversation he’d once had with Merlin-

_I cared about these people... Why do they hate me?_

_No, they don’t hate you. They just crave your power for themselves._

_Would they still want that power if I was the king my people deserve?_

***

Morgana appeared among a murder of crows. Hundreds of black wings surrounded her like a shroud as her body emerged from the Lake and floated into the air. She was hidden from their view until the murder dissolved and the crows joined the doves in the trees. Ebony hair cascaded off her shoulder as she laid there unconscious, much as Gwen had, except she looked less asleep and more... dead.

Her eyes were open. The green orbs that had once radiated strength and compassion and then vengeance and bitterness now were utterly vacant. She wore the same bitter, desperate expression she’d worn when Merlin had struck her with his sword.

And what woke the High Priestess from her centuries-old slumber was a well-aimed jab in the ribs that Gwen executed warily.

Morgana blinked. Merlin jumped. Arthur groaned.

“Why did we agree to wake her again?”

“Because, _Arthur_ ,” Gwen hissed, “she’s your sister and perhaps, as things have changed for us, they have for her as well.”

“And you don’t think the crows are a bad sign?”

“They’re _birds_ , Arthur. What are they going to do? Peck your eyes out?”

“According to that Hitchcock movie Merlin showed me, exactly, yes.”

“Arthur, Gwen.” Merlin spared hardly a glance at his bickering friends. “Might want to, you know, shut up for a moment.”

He approached the sorceress slowly, as one might approach a butterfly upon a sheaf of wheat, uncertain whether its vibrant colours are deadly poison or innocent charm, uncertain of who has become the hunter and who the prey. Morgana seemed to register his presence little by little, her fingers twitching as she struggled to command control of her magic. The lines of exhaustion and pain had erased themselves from her cheeks, restoring her to her former beauty: a ghost of a strong-willed Lady in the black-threaded guise of a witch. Hope fluttered its wings and tickled Merlin’s chest.

“Em-"

Merlin froze. _No. Please._ He watched despairingly as cold hatred settle into the green eyes and tight, pale lips.

“ _Emrys…_ ”

He sighed. Even as her words spat venom at him, fear had etched itself into her helpless frown. Crouching to meet her gaze, he reached for her trembling hands. She gasped softly and pulled her hands to her chest, clutching them in weak, uncertain fists.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Morgana.” The fists shook but remained clenched near her neck. “Not anymore,” he added softly.

As her hands collapsed and fell limply on the grass, his palm resting upon her shoulder, a single tear joined the early morning dew on the lakeshore.

***

A decade of pain, betrayal and enmity couldn’t be erased in one moment of altruism. Merlin hadn’t expected it to, but the impenetrable chasm between him and Morgana stung nonetheless after what had seemed like a warm breath of friendship. What tore at his heart even further was the note of fear that now flashed across her eyes when she glared at him.

He had killed her, after all. Twice. First her soul, then her body. They’d been friends.

He knew why it had gone wrong; what he didn’t understand was when. The indecipherable riddles that Kilgharrah had thrown at him were infuriating, especially as they accompanied a destiny that bore the weight of a thousand kingdoms. He had tried to solve them with imaginary clues and fabricated answers, and he had only hurt all those he loved most. In the end, he himself couldn’t even recognise the person he’d become.

The monster he’d become.

 _I’m not a monster, am I?_ What was it Gaius had said? _Don’t ever think that_. Well, he supposed he didn’t think it. He felt it.

He’d felt it burning his skin as he realised the ghoulish shape that the clouds were forming. He felt it now, scratching his throat, as he knocked on the open bedroom door and Morgana’s head snapped up.

“What do you want?”

And despite everything, it was only the fear that he heard.

“Morgana, I-" She interrupted him with a silent grimace and a shake of her raven head, returning her gaze to the window. Still he persevered, determined to hold his grip on what had slipped through his fingers centuries ago. “Morgana, please. Can we talk?”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

Part of him nudged his feet towards the door, reminding him that she had done as much evil as he, that she did not deserve all of his energy and apologies when other, more pressing matters required his attention. But it was the same part that had nearly abandoned Gwaine and Percival at Ismere. It was the same part that had turned a cold shoulder to Mordred’s pleas when the boy had needed him.

“Please. I swear I won’t- Morgana, I just need to talk. For... for our sake.”

She turned to stare at him incredulously. It was obvious what her eyes were screaming: _Our? ‘Our’ hasn’t existed for a long time, Merlin_.

But something on his face must have combined just the right amount of remorse and hope, because she stood up then, pushing herself off the bed and sweeping her cardigan on in one graceful motion befitting the Lady she’d once been. She raised her eyebrows. _Where to?_

***

After pondering the suitability of a London café for such a grave talk, they decided to relocate to the woods. It seemed fitting, somehow, to settle their differences under the sunbathed, lime-green canopies, where they could almost imagine it was Camelot and forget the past fifteen hundred years. Birdsong and crackling branches drowned out the distant roar of the city. Merlin wondered why transportation magic had taken so long for him to master; travelling leagues at such a rate would have saved him many troubles back then, maybe would have even saved-

“So?”

There was a bored expectancy in her voice, but he could carve out the hints of hope and eagerness peering out.

“Alright.” He gestured at a slab of moss-ridden rock, and they both draped themselves over damp stone. “I... Morgana, the truth is, I have no idea where or how to start.”

“How about with hemlock, Merlin? You do seem to favour it so readily.”

“Morgana, I-"

“Or better yet, let’s start with your magic, _Emrys_. And how you let me suffer all that time, made me think myself a monster for telling Uther to go to hell when you yourself would have done the same in a heartbeat. You let me think I was alone when _you_ understood better than anyone.”

Something snapped in Merlin then. He’d caused her so much pain, and for that he’d spend the rest of his life with a stain on his conscience, but he couldn’t _stand_ being so… dehumanised anymore. None of those creatures of the Old Religion whom he’d encountered — Kilgharrah, Alator, Finna, even Gaius — had ever truly treated him as _Merlin_ rather than Emrys. The moment the word “immortal” slid off their Druid tongues, they became spellbound by knotted canes and white beards and eyes that appeared wiser than they were.

He hadn’t chosen this. He was tired of having to repeat the same words in his head, too ashamed of his failure to speak them aloud. _He hadn’t chosen this_. He was a boy from Ealdor with a mother who had raised him to be human and taught him to be kind. If the Goddess had wanted her mission done quickly and coldly, she shouldn’t have placed the power within a boy with nothing to steer him but his heart. He had made thousands of mistakes, mistakes that had hurt thousands, but he didn’t know that anyone could’ve done better when equipped with only fear and naïveté.

Perhaps telling her would have prevented many of the terrible things that followed. Perhaps telling her would have made them worse. All he knew was his magic had been his secret to keep, and guiding her to the Druid camp had been the best that a boy of barely twenty years could do.

All of this raced through his head as he gathered the courage to say it out loud. He tempered his frustration and willed his voice to echo the desperation he felt rather than the anger. Drawing a breath, he looked Morgana in the eye and opened his mouth-

One of the bushes to their right snorted. Then it sneezed. Morgana was the first to look over.

A burst of white among green foliage. Merlin watched Morgana’s startled gaze softening with hopeful disbelief and followed it to the rustle of a nearby blackberry bush. His heart pummelled against his chest as he recognised the narrowed, night-blue eyes between the brambles.

 _The light of the sun_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from: "Les Amants de Paris" (Edith Piaf)


	3. Car rien n’est gratuit dans la vie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the sky can be one and the same forever, why can’t we?

Aithusa’s eyes bore into Merlin like blazing sapphires.

Within their lucent surfaces, he could make out his own bewildered face beside Morgana’s adoring one. The blue was no longer faded and grey-tinted as it had been when he encountered the dragon at Ismere; the healthy glow of white skin and sharp teeth rendered Aithusa nearly unrecognisable, especially to Morgana, who only remembered her horrible, sickly state, courtesy of the Sarrum. Merlin shuddered as a frisson of guilt and regret bounded up his spine.

“Aithusa,” Morgana breathed, relief and wonder emanating from her weak voice.

Merlin turned to her. “How do you know her name?”

“What are you talking about?” Morgana glared at him, her chin impossibly high. “I _named_ her.”

“You couldn’t have, I-"

“She did.”

They spun around to stare at Aithusa, who watched them with narrowed, insouciant eyes. Her tongue flicked out between her teeth, the only sign of life as she crouched stone-still between the brambles.

“You can... talk.” Merlin grimaced at the idiotic stutter in his voice.

“Sure I can. How kind of you to notice.”

“Aithusa,” Morgana repeated softly, and as the dragon’s eyes flitted over to her old friend, the sharp glare became a tender gaze.

Merlin scrunched up his nose. “How does she know your name?”

Aithusa padded out from the bushes. “I’m not certain how it happened, but you both gave me the same name. I suppose I was destined to be Aithusa, if the most powerful warlock and witch to ever walk the earth named me so.”

“He-" There was an uncomfortable pause as Morgana squinted at Merlin, scandalised. “He gave you the same name? I had the same idea as _him_?”

“I came up with it first, just for the record,” Merlin said. “A name was required for Aithusa to be born.”

Morgana turned to Aithusa, betrayed, her mouth in an indignant “O”. The dragon winked and ignored her in favour of Merlin, who wondered if his hopes had just been quashed that all dragons may not be as absolutely destructive as Kilgharrah.

***

Aithusa’s voice was bright and melodic as a whip-poor-will in the night. She appeared immensely proud of it, so Merlin and Morgana spared no scrap of praise and applause as they admired her eloquence. Eventually, though, they grew quiet, for the story she was telling seemed to warrant respectful silence. ( _But not pity_ , Merlin noted, glancing at Morgana. _Never pity_.)

Merlin had sent her away at Camlann, which had been the last that either the warlock or the witch had seen of her. With Morgana’s death, she hadn’t known where to fly, so she’d built herself a dwelling in the cave where Balinor used to live; she had felt drawn there by the ghostly presence of a Dragonlord. (Merlin wiped his cheeks and smiled.) There, she had remained for centuries, hanging to life by the barest threads as her strength drained from her with every weak, famished breath. Hunting had taken far too long to master.

Her scales had grown hard and ached in the darkest, coldest days of winter. Oftentimes, she’d curl into herself deep within the cave and dream of friendship and warmth, if only to escape the loneliness and grief that pervaded her reality.

Morgana’s eyes shone. “Oh, Aithusa, how could I have-" Her voice trembled, and the dragon cocked her head.

“It wasn’t all too bad,” Aithusa said kindly, nosing Morgana with a playful snort. “There are bright sides to being alone. You always did take up more of the bed than I did, and I’m twice your size.”

“When did you learn to speak?” Merlin croaked. His throat was impossibly dry; the only reason tears weren’t flowing down his cheeks as they were Morgana’s was the feeling that he didn’t deserve to cry over a dragon whom he’d brought into the world — and whom he’d abandoned.

Aithusa allowed herself a studious second to watch Merlin quizzically. “A Dragonlord found me,” she said simply.

Merlin’s heart battered wildly. “That’s imp-"

“It seems you were not, in fact, the last of the Dragonlords. There are lands beyond Albion, where magic runs free… or where sorcery is considered even a greater crime than it was here. The world is far wider than the minds of men could ever hope to be. And as society progressed, as civilisations grew, many creatures of the Old Religion travelled here from distant lands, including the Dragonlord who taught me to speak.”

Aithusa paused, a deep melancholy flushing her pale cheeks. With another faint whimper, Morgana approached the dragon, her hand outstretched and desperate.

“He died all too soon. Before he could have a son to whom he could pass his powers. No Dragonlord ever came after that, but at least I’d learned to speak.” Aithusa sighed. “It had been far too silent for those first dozen centuries.”

Merlin gasped, clinging to Morgana’s hand as she sobbed and nearly collapsed. “ _Dozen_?” he whispered. “You spent twelve hundred years in silence?”

“You spent fifteen hundred in heartbreak,” Aithusa said softly, an air of indifferent _how-small-you-are-for-such-a-great-burden_ that resonated with the memory of Kilgharrah, except there was a note of true empathy that couldn’t be ignored.

“Aithusa.” He wondered how many chances he had left to say the two words that had haunted him most. “I’m sorry.”

“You had your destiny to shoulder, Emrys. I did not expect undivided attention just because you called me to this world. In the end, it was for the best that I learned to fend for myself.” Aithusa’s eyes widened. “Ah, I’ve forgotten!”

She began scuttling away from them, and Merlin and Morgana shared a look of alarm.

“Where are you going?” Morgana called, her features melting into some semblance of reassurance and hope when Aithusa turned to wink at them over her shoulder.

“There’s something I need to show you.”

***

 _Impossible_. Merlin blinked and pinched himself. Then Morgana (who yelped and glared). Then himself again.

They stood on the crest of a wildflower-ridden hill, peering over amber fields and viridescent canopies. Singing winds from all directions tousled their hair and tugged at their clothes. With the sun upon their faces and the future in their eyes, the three of them might as well have been perched upon the top of the world. Aithusa shot Merlin a smug look, which he returned with a grateful, awestruck smile.

Because in the distance (yet closer than ever before), the chapels and parapets of Camelot beckoned warmly. The citadel glowed with a radiance of centuries past that stung Merlin’s eyes as he stared at it. Complete with crimson flags and gold-topped spires reaching their arms to the heavens, the image charred itself into his mind — and if her dry, parted lips were any indication, into Morgana’s as well.

“Aithusa, wh-" Morgana fell into silence again. He couldn’t blame her.

Seeing the city like this, a millenium and a half after he’d lost everything — it was almost too much. And yet it felt only comforting, like a jumper that isn’t quite the right colour nor the right size but somehow fits more perfectly than the clothes you usually wear. _If the sky can be one and the same forever, why can’t we?_

“I found her about a century or so ago. I sensed her presence. By that time, my magic was already quite powerful” — at this, Aithusa’s chest puffed up in pride and pleasure — “so I was able to extract her from the bubble and keep her hidden from the rest of the world.”

Merlin wrenched his gaze away from Camelot and towards the dragon. “Bubble?”

“Bubble,” she affirmed. “The bubble you set up around her?”

Hearing the silence that followed, Morgana turned to find the two staring, befuddled, at each other. Worse than that, fear was beginning to stream once again into Merlin’s eyes, which had only just rediscovered the happiness of their Camelot days.

“I didn’t set up a bubble,” he said. “Aithusa, what kind of bubble was this? Why did you think it was me?”

“I felt you. It was your presence, as much as Camelot’s, that drew me here from Balinor’s cave.”

Merlin knitted his eyebrows together and sulked in his signature conglomerate of shadows that no one but time could break. As he drifted into his own dark world of too many questions and fears, Morgana placed a comforting hand on a crestfallen Aithusa.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said, scratching the little velvety spot on the back of the dragon’s head and extracting what could only be characterised as a satisfied purr.

Merlin shook his head and forced himself to smile grimly at Aithusa, who sought approval in his face with child-like eagerness.

“Thank you, Aithusa. You’ve done so well.”

***

They trod softly on cracked leaves and brown mushrooms on their way back through the woods. Aithusa had bid them farewell at the hilltop, appointing it as their meeting place should they ever need her again. ( _Don’t worry. You’ll summon me, Emrys, and I’ll come._ ) Since the start of the journey, Morgana had resolutely kept her eyes on a stubborn square of space right in front of her feet.

And then he realised.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he demanded.

She lifted her chin at him defiantly. “Tell anyone what?”

“That you don’t know how much time has passed. That you awoke from Avalon thinking that, only moments ago, I had just struck you with a dragon-forged sword.”

“I told Gwen.” Her eyes glistened as her whole figure sagged wearily. “I told Gwen part of it. I don’t know… it’s not like anyone would have cared.”

Merlin grabbed her hands. “We _all_ care, Morgana. We always have. Truly.” He felt dizzy all of a sudden, and his grip on her fingers tightened as it became a lifeline for himself instead. “Gods, I can’t imagine how confused or frightened you must be. I saw you scrutinising everything in the car and at the flat, but I thought you were just overwhelmed, as Arthur and Gwen were. But just now, you weren’t looking at Camelot like I was. You weren’t shocked — you were relieved.”

She plucked a stray strand of black hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. The silence stretched for what seemed like hours, until she finally snuck a glimpse at him, only to find his eyes still scorching, still drilling into her.

“Morgana,” he breathed, “it’s been fifteen hundred years.”

Ever the heroine, her face remained stoic even as her eyes panicked. “Fifteen…”

As he had with Arthur — and even with Gwen before he noticed that she was entirely comfortable with her surroundings — Merlin felt a pang of helplessness as he watched Morgana come to terms with terrible reality. He wished he could do something, _anything_ , to alleviate her pain, to lend her some strength even though she probably didn’t need much; Morgana had always been so strong and-

He blinked. _Of course._

Morgana whined faintly when he released her hands, but he was busy rummaging around his pockets for- Ah, there. Her eyes brightened in innocent curiosity at the tumble of green mist lying in his palm. With a sweep of his hand, a whispered _Wrîgian_ , he answered her silent enquiry: the vapour dissipated and left in its wake a small, ornate ring.

It was regal in its organised structure as well as its ornate delicacy. Tiny spheres of emerald sat, poised, between intricate swirls of centimetre-wide roses. Bold and elegant, the golden-green garden wrapped around a silver band, crescendoing to a large, coruscating design. An “M” made of the green gems wove around a rose-built “R”.

“It was crafted with another of similar kind, commissioned by the same person, but they were separated. This one was to be mine, to symbolise our friendship. The other is mother-of-pearl, with rubies and diamonds and gold — the colours of Camelot, in fact. I would have that ring, but it’s guarded quite closely in Chequers.”

“Beautiful.” Her voice was hardly a whisper, and he smiled as he remembered a similar gasp from Freya under floating candle flames. “Bit opulent for my taste,” she added, drawing a chuckle out of both of them.

“I’ve enchanted it,” he said, “so that should anything ever happen to me, the ring will glow. And should the one wearing the ring ever be in danger, I’ll feel it. I’d intended it for-" He paused. After a moment, he shook his head. “I trust you, Morgana. In case I ever need it, I trust you to come to my aid. And in case you ever need it, you should know that I’ll do the same.”

Morgana avoided his eyes, but before she could avert her face, he brushed the tears off her cheeks.

“The lady who gave me this,” Merlin said, sliding the ring onto Morgana’s finger, “reminded me of you and Gwen in her strength and wisdom. She was incredible. A queen in more ways than one.”

“What was her name?”

His eyes twinkled with distant, happy memories. “Elizabeth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from: "Le Festin" (Camille)


	4. On a chanté, on a dansé, et l’on n’a même pas pensé à s’embrasser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ring spun a tale, of monarchs and sorceresses and silk gowns, and it fascinated her.

For such a small token, the ring was considerably heavy on her finger. The stones leered at her: _you’re not worthy, not trustworthy, not worthy, not trust_ -

Morgana breathed shakily and fiddled with the silver band.

The gemstones glittered as she twirled the band round and round, catching the light of the moon trickling in through the stained glass panes of her chambers so that the pure emerald became saturated with colours across the spectrum, reminding her of the ceremonial robes that lords wore to coronations and feasts and the myriad of celebrations in Camelot. Regal and poised in the same way she used to sit upon her throne, the roses were ladies of the court, blushing yet not so much hiding behind their fans as they were covering their mouths so that no one witnessed the scandalous words trespassing over their pure, innocent lips. The ring spun a tale, of monarchs and sorceresses and silk gowns, and it fascinated her.

She furrowed her brows. The lifeline enchantment Merlin had placed upon the ring would have been enough — _more_ than enough — but this was Merlin, so of course he’d gone and complicated it. It wouldn’t just glow when he was in danger, for that was something he’d added. He told her about the ring’s innate power: should he ever be in mortal danger, unable to come to her aid when she needed it, the ring would grant her a single wish of any nature she desired.

Exquisite jewelry had always been a weakness of hers, but this one carried just a little too much _destiny_ with it to only be considered a delicate trinket. After all, Merlin had said...

Morgana prayed silently that the ring would never glow.

***

Arthur collapsed when they told him that Camelot was found.

He fell into the cushions laid out on the sofa, fingers pressing against his temple as he had done before particularly unpleasant treaty negotiations. Gwen, who was on the verge of her own stunned collapse, glanced worriedly at his taut expression and shared a grimace with Merlin and Morgana. Uneasy silence roared in their ears as they waited for Arthur to speak — or move.

Finally, after what must have been longer than the fifteen centuries that Merlin had spent alone waiting for his bloody pratness to wake up, Arthur stood up and hurled his hands against the mantelpiece. A collective soundless wince resounded among the three watching him, and echoes of seething days full of desperate screams and usually Uther-initiated frustration shrouded Arthur in an achingly familiar mood.

Morgana was the first to prod the mist gently. “Arthur? It was beautiful, you know, not a soul has touched it since-"

She faltered as Gwen laid a warning hand upon her arm, flashing her a reassuring yet troubled smile. The fire danced on the logs in the fireplace, logs that were man-made and a fire that was unnaturally born, perverse imitations of the cosy, agrestal flames that had lit up their city. Merlin was reminded of his first night in Camelot, blissfully unaware of the years and years of sorrow awaiting him just beyond that innocent horizon, flinging himself upon the sill to admire flickering homes mirroring the stars in the twilight sky-

And then Arthur spoke.

“Merlin.” His voice came out in a hushed, sibilant whisper. “How come… it took a bloody _dragon_ to find Camelot when you’ve been idling here for fifteen centuries?”

Merlin huffed, but relief bloomed in his chest nonetheless. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been rather busy worrying about getting you lot back-"

“We are leaving this ridiculous flat,” he said, ignoring Merlin’s indignant squawk, but then he turned to beam at them and all protests faded from Merlin’s throat; “and we are returning to Camelot.”

***

“Bog man!”

Gwaine’s hug crushed his bones into sand, but it was worth the pain to hold his friend once more. The tears fell as readily as the laughter; they both stepped back to examine each other as they had outside the Crystal Cave, eyes meeting with arms clasped, except this time their tender smiles held nostalgia rather than sorrow.

The shadows highlighted the angles of Gwaine’s jaw and cast an uncharacteristic sobriety over his chestnut eyes. Despite the coquettish grin permanently pasted on his face, his eyes betrayed a brewing maelstrom of fear and bewilderment.

He cocked his head, scanning Merlin’s worried expression. “Now, why do you look like someone’s just told you your mead is only honey water?”

Merlin choked out a laugh and pointed at the neon sign behind them as they left the bar. “All those choices and you’re still on mead?”

“None of them come close to it.” Gwaine shrugged. “Can't beat old favourites. Too strong, not strong enough…”

His voice trailed off, and Merlin thought if talking about alcohol could put Gwaine in this state, then the trauma must be terrible beyond imagining. Some time passed before either of them spoke again, and then only because the silence was beginning to feel stifling.

“About right,” Merlin said, “that I’d find you in a bar.”

Gwaine snickered. “Am I that special?”

“If by _special_ , you mean in dire need of temperance and spiritual help.”

“Can’t say you’re wrong there. And how exactly did you find me? Not that I’m not glad you did, because one second longer and I would’ve started a full-on brawl, the way I scared the lot of them. But how did you _know_?”

Merlin thought for a bit, not because he’d forgotten, but because his head was still racing to catch up with the idea that they were all, _all of them_ , back and he was not alone, not ever going to be alone-

He inhaled softly. “I could… feel it. When you appeared in that closet back there — which, by the way, did you _see_ the way the barman jumped out of his skin? — it was this tapping sensation, like someone was drumming their fingers on my arm. It was the same for everyone except Arthur, Gwen and Morgana; they were the only ones from the Lake.”

“Seems about right. One of these days, I’m going to find a way to join that little inner circle business you four have going on.”

Merlin chuckled wryly. “Do you really want to?”

He immediately regretted having opened his stupid, careless mouth as he watched a bravely hidden flicker of hurt darken Gwaine’s smile. _You’re the only friend I’ve got_. Merlin had all but cast him aside those final years before Camlann, slamming the door on anything that wasn’t related to that damned destiny and his own paranoia. Of course, that “inner circle” was full of hatred and betrayal and mistrust and hurt, so it wasn't the most fun to be a part of, but he supposed it wasn’t surprising for Gwaine to feel bitter. After all, he’d only come to Camelot because of Merlin in the first place.

These were things he could never speak aloud. No matter how he intended to soothe, to comfort, to reassure — it would only sound shallow and disingenuous. Better to leave them as tacit walls that he could break down with reinvigorated warmth and friendship. That is, supposing Gwaine was still accepting of his friendship.

It was at such times that Merlin felt entirely defenceless against not only the weight of this burden that Kilgharrah called “destiny”, but also the pain and suffering it had wrought upon those he loved.

_Loves_. _They’re back now_. You’re not alone-

“What is it, Merlin?” If despondence and concern had soused his voice before, Gwaine was now positively alarmed. “Do you feel something- you know?” He wiggled his fingers for “magic” effect, which would have been amusing if his face weren’t darker than the shadows in which they walked.

“No, I’m fine. I just… I’m not looking forward to whatever this ’greatest trial’ business is, that’s all.”

Gwaine laughed, but with only the barest trace of mirth. “Only you, Merlin. We’re all back, aren’t we? You’re not alone anymore, as you were for far too long. Isn’t that enough to smile about?”

“Haven’t you heard that saying?” Merlin bit his lip as he thought. “One swallow does not a summer make?”

Gwaine raised his brows. “And one storm does not the whole earth shake.”

At that moment, the ground beneath them trembled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from: "Champs-Elysées" (ZAZ)


	5. Nous aurons pour nous l’éternité dans le bleu de toute l’immensité

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crown weighs less than a life.

When he looked back later on, Arthur would always wonder what petty, malevolent spirit had arisen from the dead and possessed him at that moment, for there could be no other explanation for his having done what he did. Embracing his own sister was one thing, forgiving her for her wrongs but never quite forgetting them, because even the redeemed soul has space for remorse.

But this was Mordred.

_Mordred_. Who, despite all their previous acts of friendship and vows of loyalty, had ambled up to him on the battlefield and driven a blade into his heart.

There’d been no warning beyond his timid speech in Arthur’s chambers that night, one that Arthur now recognised to be less of a plea for mercy than a sorrowful farewell. If his distrusting glares were any indication, Merlin had been far more suspicious of the knight than Arthur had ever been. (With begrudgingly good reason, if Camlann was any indication. Still, Merlin’s reliance on the old fool of a dragon had earned him more than a few lectures from Arthur.)

More than anyone, Arthur knew what it was to have the woman one loved be threatened with execution, to despair over bright eyes and loving arms that were to be lost to the Gates of Death. But Arthur had never harboured any idea of rebellion or of _murder_ when Gwen had been dragged away to the dungeons — he’d offered up his own throne. A crown weighs less than a life.

Yet Kara — what a heart-wrenchingly pure name for someone with so fierce and dark a heart — wanted more than life or freedom. She wanted blood, and Arthur could see no other option than the one written in the volumes upon the dusty shelves that Geoffrey studied so religiously, than the one that Uther had scrawled like a mantra into his young toddler mind. Surely Mordred knew, and surely he understood.

Then again, perhaps not. In hindsight, Arthur couldn’t quite believe what could only be attributed to a severe bout of amnesia. Green eyes from beneath a green hood, watching him not quite like a wolf stalking a deer, rather more similar to a cat cocking its head at a peculiarly loud mouse. The Druid boy had slipped so easily from his memory, he often wondered whether that had not been a sign that, even then, the Old Religion would have flourished should the crown have rested upon his head rather than Uther’s. After all, violating one’s dearest principles would certainly not be so forgettable. Perhaps, or rather, definitely, he’d always been more of an idiot than a prince.

Which brought him to his current state of distress. The boy — the man, the _murderer_ — kneeling on the grass by his feet, shedding tears he had no right to shed, speaking words he had no right to speak.

“Merlin told me,” he was saying as he wept, “the truth about Kara. What you did for her- for me. I knew it myself. I knew it, Ar- sire. You see, I was blinded by love. She was the first person I’d ever felt-“

“Mordred.” And then Arthur was moving outside of his own will, head swirling with echoing _You’re better than this Arthur_ and _I believe in you, I always have_ and _One day you will be the greatest king this_ -

His arms were wrapped around the boy before he knew what was happening. As sobs wracked both of their bodies, filling the forest with more pain and sorrow than it deserved to suffer, Arthur lifted his head from Mordred’s shoulder to find Merlin’s eyes. The warlock was watching them from under a few low-hanging branches, breathing in the petrichor as though it were the only concern on his mind. But his eyes gave him away, sparkling with relief and content and no small amount of guilt, which Arthur supposed wasn’t surprising after what Merlin had told him about his confrontations with Mordred.

Every time Arthur was reunited with one of his knights, the world spun a little faster, the sun shone a little brighter, the clouds drifted a little higher.

Now he felt the earth, sea and sky rejoice as he embraced the wayward Druid boy.

***

Daegal appeared with no warning. Invisible as the first time they’d met, he knocked on Gaius’ chamber doors one evening, stealing the breath away from Merlin, who turned pale and threw his arms around the boy immediately.

The room began to spin as Merlin found himself unable to stop blubbering and apologising, his chest contracting with the guilt of ending the blossoming life of so young a soul. Even as Daegal shivered in the embrace, his bright, earnest eyes searched the older man’s face with an impressive steadiness.

Once Merlin calmed, they withdrew from each other’s arms. “I’m no better than Morgana,” he choked, gripping the nearest chair as his knees wobbled. “In fact, I’m worse. At least she offered you an escape.”

“Yes, but you see,” Daegal said, lowering his chin and flicking his eyes upwards in that pained yet eager way of his, “it’s only called an escape when it wasn’t something you wanted.” His voice held the lugubrious wisdom that only terrible suffering could impart. “Merlin, the first time I heard your name was from Morgana’s lips, after I’d lured you to her — to her trap. Remember what I told you? About other people? That I- that I don’t matter?”

For the first time, his voice trembled. Merlin stared at him, unable to believe that this was the same boy who had stolen into the kitchens of Camelot and led Merlin to his doom for a pouch of gold pieces.

“When I d- when I died,” Daegal continued, eyes darting back and forth, “I mattered. I was… happy. I know it sounds naïve and- and like I’m pretending to be brave, but I did something right. And I was- I am proud of that.”

Merlin smiled, at a loss for words, and instead let his arms do what his lips could not: he steered Daegal towards the door and led him to the council chambers so Arthur could meet the hero he’d never known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from: "L'hymne à l'amour" (Edith Piaf)


	6. Les mots d’amour, les mots de tous les jours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin shrugged. “Because I am one storm?”
> 
> Gwaine laughed. “Believe me, Merlin. You’re a great deal more than that.”

As the trembling settled and no crisis appeared to be at hand, Gwaine cocked an eyebrow. “What was that?”

Merlin shrugged. “You said one storm does not the whole earth shake. So, being the all-powerful Emrys, I made an earthquake, to prove you wrong.”

“I fail,” Gwaine said slowly, “to see how that proves me wrong.”

A tentative pause.

“Because I am one storm?”

Gwaine laughed. “Believe me, Merlin. You’re a great deal more than _that_.”

Merlin shook his head, but his grin was unmistakable. “I’m not making this up, though,” he said as they sobered up. “Whatever ‘trial’ is facing us, it will be nothing like we’ve faced before.”

“And how do you know that? The things we’ve- the things _you’ve_ faced alone, Merlin, they’re enough to fill a score of Geoffrey’s books at least.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ve faced everything. And coming from the Old Religion, there’s not much chance we’ll have it easy. This will be a great test for all of us. I’ve got to do something now, to prepare for the worst, to ensure that we remain on the offensive, _something_.”

His voice was growing agitated, but he couldn’t help it. His ears rang and his heart clamoured against his chest, the familiar swell of panic emanating from him so strongly that Gwaine must have felt it too because he reached for Merlin’s hands and stabilised his shaking limbs.

“I can’t just sit and do nothing, Gwaine. It has to be now. It has to start. I can’t _wait_ anymore, it’s been fifteen bloody _centuries_ -“

Thunder rumbled overhead, and this time it wasn’t the work of Emrys, but of Merlin.

***

Three princesses emerged on the horizon, clutching each other for support as they stumbled back and forth in drunken bliss. One, wrapped in a hot pink crop top and tight black leggings, fumbled her fingers around her necklace, which held a sapphire heart pendant that accentuated her jewel-bright eyes. Another seemed to hop from one foot to the other, not so much walking as skipping; her blonde curls fluttered in front of her olive-green eyes with every bounce. The tallest one wore a loose lavender blouse and faded blue jeans, striding forward with as much purpose as a completely inebriated woman could muster, her brown hair jostling on milky-white shoulders and her long legs barely twitching in their wide, confident steps — a true feat in and of itself.

There was laughter trickling from their lips, but it rang out sounding rather maniacal, which could have had something to do the fear and uncertainty flashing across their faces occasionally.

As they reached the crest of the rolling green hills, their giggles faltered, and the drunken mist of denial lifted for a moment as they stood there, fantasising about a past that had only just begun to be reignited and that they weren’t yet quite sure was a welcome memory. For the moment, their limbs were tangled together in quite an undignified manner, unbefitting the princesses-turned-queens they were, as though each found solace in the wretched company of the other two. Having hardly exchanged a word before the hotel bar in which they’d met, the three now felt like sisters in all but blood.

And so they clung to each other, wondering what had called them back from peaceful slumber to not only the world, but the city they were appraising from the top of a verdant slope.

Camelot.

***

It was quiet in Arthur’s chambers, and the night respected them enough to allow for open windows without even the gentle disturbance of owls and crickets. A silent breeze wafted in the scent of rain and moonbeams, nestling at the foot of the bed and wrapping the room in a cloak of cool tranquility. They laid on the bed, on top of the covers — one happy and content because he was no longer alone, and the other because he was alone enough.

“I wonder how you’d have turned out without me,” Merlin murmured, weaving their fingers together like threads of the same tapestry.

“Like Uther, I’d expect,” Arthur said, and Merlin turned to him with a shocked snort of amusement.

Arthur flicked Merlin’s collar with a derisive but fond chuckle. “Honestly, I don’t think I would have.”

“Would have what?”

“Turned out.” He shifted to face Merlin. “Not without you.”

Merlin attempted a smile, but his lips hardly had the energy to curl. “You didn’t have a chance to find out because of me. Maybe without me, there would have been no prophecy, no Mordred, no-"

“There would’ve been a crown, wouldn’t there?” Arthur cut him off. “And where there’s a crown, there’s a Morgana — whether it would’ve been Morgana or not — and there’s an Odin, and a Morgause, and a Cenred- and hell, I’ll say it. There would’ve been another Uther because that’s what happens to arrogant princes when they don’t have an idiot manservant to tell them off when they’re wrong.”

“Mm, it’s a good job I showed up then,” Merlin mumbled drowsily as sleep danced over his eyes. Then something occurred to him. “You know what’s funny?”

Arthur hummed in question.

“Without your father,” Merlin said, “I wouldn’t be here. Without _you_ , I wouldn’t be here.”

“I only wish… that it wasn’t because-"

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from: "La vie en rose" (Edith Piaf)


	7. Chapter 7: Et si tu n’existais pas, dis-moi pourquoi j’existerais?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He may have been braver then, but he was wiser now. He sighed, looking sadly but firmly over his shoulder at her frantic green eyes. “Because I have hope.”

The hall was largely empty. The clicking of her heels struck the floor below and the ceiling above as she approached the throne, fists clenched. As she narrowed her eyes and prepared to speak, the man looked up with rings of red around his eyes, and she nearly faltered.

But she was Morgana Pendragon, and she had come here with a purpose.

“You know why I’m here,” she said simply, the venom more than clear in her voice.

Was that wince of his drawn by her words or by his pain? Either way, it brought her satisfaction, a sign that her mission would be easier than she’d thought.

She drew a breath and continued. “Mer-”

“Morgana. _Please._ ”

It was a broken word, shattering in the room like ocean waves on a sharp cliff. She flinched and slinked back, a serpent’s tongue darting back into its mouth. But she would not be deterred, not after having spent a sleepless night rummaging inside herself for the courage to speak these words.

“He needs us, Arthur.” She began softly, but he shot her a glare, and her temper flared. “We don’t know how much he knows! Imagine if he thinks- Being abandoned like that _once_ is traumatising enough — twice is enough to drive a man mad!”

“We are going to see him again. We will show him he was never alone.”

“But he doesn’t _know_ that right now! Arthur, imagine the state he is in. He thinks it’s happened all over again, he’s lost us all. He’s _alone_ , Arthur!”

Arthur nearly gave in, then. He could hold on — he knew _Merlin_ could hold on — for centuries if it meant they could find each other, in the end. He was prepared to face all manners of cruelties, and he would even accept that Merlin might have to face some as well. But he could not stand the idea of Merlin being alone. Not after the fifteen hundred years he spent, waiting at Avalon by Arthur’s side.

He growled and snapped his gaze towards Morgana, who radiated fury and desperation. But he couldn’t — not if what Freya had said was true, and the Triple Goddess was waiting for him to learn his lesson. If he gave in now, who knows what else She would put them through?

 _All_ of them?

“It is for all our sakes,” he said quietly, and shoved past her.

“How can you sit here and do nothing?” she cried, pulling at his arm. “What if it goes wrong? Why won’t you take matters into your own hands?”

He stopped. Once wise words when directed at the tyrant that Uther had been, her demands were now no more than aching reminders of the reckless knight he had once been, making choices within seconds because gods be damned if he became anything like his idle king of a father. He had trusted no one else to do what he’d thought must be done, and he had believed that all was lost whenever matters were out of his hands. He’d despaired so much of the world that anything outside of his control was hopeless to him.

But times were different. He may have been braver then, but he was wiser now. He sighed, looking sadly but firmly over his shoulder at her frantic green eyes. “Because I have hope.”

***

Two figures on a hill ridden with wildflowers. The breeze played with their hair and clothes as they soaked in the view of the city and the palace in the distance. The air seemed to ring with a finality, a sort of peace that is only visible after the dust settles and will remain there for a long time to come. What else would the most beaten and bruised pair of souls in the world deserve?

A wave of the hand, and Merlin conjured his piano. It popped into place beside them, disturbing the flat landscape and matting the daffodils below its feet. Arthur chuckled and closed his eyes, ready to listen.

Every note, caressed like it were the last, just as thousands upon thousands of days had passed. How sweet the music was, how sweet the air and the silence. Perhaps they did not earn it, and perhaps they would never deserve this peace. But he didn’t care.

Still, he had to ask. “Does it ever bother you,” he said, eyes still lightly shut, “that we failed?”

He was afraid, for a moment, that the music would pause as Merlin answered. But after so many performances and all those centuries of practice, he couldn’t be surprised that Merlin would not have to stop playing to think.

“Eventually, it feels like the lessons we learn become mist, doesn’t it?” So much weariness in his voice. Arthur felt his gut clench and his chest ache, but he sat silently and listened. “We tried our best to listen to what destiny wanted us to do, to learn. Sometimes listening too hard distorts the voices, and I suppose, like they say, it could happen to anyone.” Merlin shrugged, still turned away to face the trees. “And it happened to happen to us. That doesn’t we don’t have to deal with the consequences.”

“But not right now,” Arthur protested, opening one eye to show Merlin his indignation. The fond, exasperated smile he received filled him with warmth.

“Not right now, sire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I've changed my mind about where this story would actually go at least a hundred times while writing it. Maybe at some point I’ll add a third part to explain what the hell actually happened- but for now, whoever's still here, enjoy this tossed-together, stir-fried bowl of head canons and self-indulgent character fix-it’s!
> 
> Title from: "Et si tu n'existais pas" (Joe Dassin)


End file.
